A/N This story
is a sequel to my short fic The Nestling, however, it can be
read on its own. (I would suggest reading the other story –
it's only six chapters.) After a bit of internal debate, I decided
that I had better stick this in the Batman Begins section
rather than the straight Batman. (Although I personally don't
see the need for a separate category.)

And the reason I chose
to start this story on August 1 is…

HAPPY
BIRTHDAY TO ME!

(And a
slightly late Happy Birthday to Gewher!)

Rated for
moderate violence, intensity, and drug abuse.

Disclaimer Aside
from the obvious, I thought it would be fun to use this space each
chapter to give credit to an author or work (other than Batman/DC
Comics) that has influenced the chapter.

So, no, I do not own
Batman, nor do I own the novel Crossfire, by Jeanette Windle,
which was guilty of undue influence on this section.

Prologue

O for a
Muse of fire, that would ascendThe brightest heaven of
invention...Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and
fireCrouch for employment.

Henry
V, Prologue

The door to the nursery
opened. "Señorita Cecilia," the black gowned maid called.
"Señor Gutierrez asks that you come to his office."

"Gracias, Rosita. I
will be down in a moment. Samara has one page more to read."

"I will tell him."

Rosita shut the door
behind her and Cecilia returned her attention to the small girl.
"Bueno, Samara, we must hurry. Your father wishes to see me."

"Si, Señorita,"
the girl sighed and looked down at the page. "Left foot…Ri…rih…"

"Right," Cecilia
interposed.

"Right foot.
F…ee…t…feetfeet. Oh how many f…eet you m…ee…t." Samara
closed the book triumphantly, then demanded in rapid Spanish,
"Señorita Cecilia, why must I learn to read in
English?"

"Ah, so that you may
grow up to be a rich and famous woman of business."

"But what if I do not
wish to be a woman of business?" the girl demanded, throwing
her hands in the air.

"It is what your
father wishes."

"But it is not what I
wish."

"Ah, no, I know what
you wish. You wish to eat chocolates all day and never brush your
hair," Cecilia teased. "But you cannot receive a salary for
that."

Samara stamped her
foot. "I do not. I will be a singer, like Shakira. Then all
of the gentlemen will adore me and buy me chocolates. That is
what they do for Rosita, and she does not even sing."

"Bah, Rosita is silly
to encourage them. One day she will get into trouble. And with you,
it is always the chocolates." Cecilia shook her finger at
her small charge.

"Do not scold me,
Señorita Cecilia. You eat the chocolates too, for I saw you in
the kitchen with a whole box of bonbons."

Cecilia laughed. "Yes,
but do not tell your mamá. She thinks I am too fat. But enough
silliness, I must go to your papá."

Cecilia left the room,
and paused before the mirror in the hall. A plump brown face above a
demure black dress peered back at her. "Bah," she murmured
impatiently as she smoothed wayward strands of dark hair behind her
ears and pushed the heavy black frames of her glasses up her nose.
Thus prepared, she hurried down the polished mahogany staircase and
knocked discreetly on the door at the bottom.

"Come in."

She entered and shut
the door. The first thing that struck her was the heat. The entire
house was equipped with central air, but the office felt as if it
were situated in the middle of the rainforest rather than an
exclusive suburb in Bogotá.

Enrique Gutierrez, her
employer, sat behind the desk, beads of sweat trickling down his
handsome face. His father-in-law, Don Carlos Morales, stood before
the fireplace, poking idly at the flaming logs with a poker. Although
Cecilia had lived with the Gutierrez family for nearly a year, this
was the first time she had seen any fireplace serve more than a
decorative function. The third man was unknown to her. He stood
against the wall near the door, dressed in a black t-shirt and black
slacks, staring blankly at the opposite wall.

But if anything was
unusual in this, Cecilia's face did not express it. Walking to
stand before the desk, she inclined her head respectfully. "You
sent for me, Señor?"

It was not Gutierrez,
but Don Carlos who answered. "Yes, Señorita Perez, we
sent for you. Won't you sit down?"

Don Carlos stared
reflectively into the fire as he spoke, in English this time. "I
have a problem, Señorita, and I wondered if you might help me
with it."

"Of course, Señor,
if I can." Cecilia responded in the same language, her accent
slightly more pronounced than that of Don Carlos.

"I very much hope
that you can. You see, it seems that we have a spy in this house.
This…criminal…broke into this office last night and made copies
of some information that was on the computer."

Cecilia's eyes
widened in shock. "Señor, that is terrible! That someone in
this house should do such a thing!"

He smiled. "I see
that we think alike. You will help me to recover what was stolen,
will you not?"

She answered
hesitantly, "Yes, Señor, but…I do not see what I can do."

"You can tell me what
you did with the information."

Honest confusion
covered the woman's face. "Tell you…but you think that I am
this spy?"

"I do not think, I am
convinced."

Cecilia sprang to her
feet in alarm. Behind her large glasses, her eyes were filled with
fear. "Señor, you are mistaken!"

Don Carlos at last drew
the poker from the fire. Its red hot tip flared as he turned. "No,
Señorita. I don't think so."

------

The fortune teller sat
in the middle of her small tent, the dank smells of incense and rain
hovering around her. It had been an unprofitable night – the small
town was nearly played out, and what few customers had trickled in
left before the show was even over, discouraged by the rain and the
leaky big top.

She lifted an arm so
that dozens of brassy bangles clashed, and pulled the spangled scarf
from her head. A frayed bun of graying hair appeared, and the
mysterious Madame Moliana Mercianne diminished into middle-aged Molly
Mercer. She absently pulled the inch-long false lashes from her left
eye, listening resignedly to the rain on the roof. Tearing everything
down in this mud was going to be…

"Hey!" The startled
shout from outside interrupted her gloomy thoughts. It was Zeke, her
guard dog/ticket boy, and he sounded frightened. "You…you can't
go in there."

There came the sound of
a brief scuffle, and then the tent flap was thrust back. Molly caught
the briefest glimpse of a looming silhouette, massive and horned,
before the flap dropped with a gust of wind that extinguished all but
one of her candles.

Heart in her throat,
she still managed to snap, "If you want your fortune told you
should have come earlier. We're closed."

The shadow seemed to
grow until it filled the small space. The slight light did nothing to
penetrate its darkness as it growled, "My future is my own
business. The information I want concerns the past."

Molly sniffed. "If
you intend to impress by theatrics you should've tried somewhere
besides the circus. Now go away and practice jumping out of closets
or something." She deliberately turned her back on the thing and
began to pack her crystal ball in its Styrofoam wrappings.

"Who was Robyn
Grayson?"

Molly froze, the
delicate ball nearly tumbling from her fingers.

"She had a husband
named Charles," the rasping voice persisted, "and a son called…"

"Richard, yes, I
know," Molly interrupted, resuming her task. "And I'll tell you
what I told the others. I don't know anything, and if I did I
certainly wouldn't tell you."

The was a hiss of
rapidly drawn breath. "What others?"

"The other nosy
people who come around, asking questions about these Grayson folks.
But at least they had the decency to come when they're
allowed, and pay the proper ticket price."

"How long…" His
question was cut short by shouts.

"Hurry! He's in
there!" came Zeke's high pitched cry.

"It's been a
pleasure, Madam Mercianne. The people I meet in my line of work
aren't usually so…charming."

Molly spun, but too
late. All that remained of her intruder was a swaying tent flap and a
piece of paper floating to the ground. She picked it up and looked
appreciatively at the picture of Benjamin Franklin.

Zeke, followed by two
burly roustabouts, burst into the tent. "Where did he go?"

Molly shrugged. "Who
cares?" She showed Zeke the hundred dollar bill. "He was a real
gentleman." She tucked the money carefully away and added, "All
the same, the sooner we clear out of this town, the happier I'll
be. I'm not too fond of the weather. Or the wildlife."

------

He sat alone in the
soft light of the lamps, his face pale against the black leather of
his luxurious chair. Long, sensitive fingers steepled against his
chin, he stared thoughtfully at the pastel swirls of color hung on
the opposite wall – a Monet, officially thought to have been
destroyed during the Second World War.

But here it hangs.
He smiled with the pleasure of his secret water lilies and allowed
his eyes to travel across the soft blue and ivory of the fringed
Persian rug, to touch on dark and polished wood, caress the shine of
dustless crystal. It was, by any standard, a beautiful room –
extravagant, elegant, soothing – safe haven.

And yet…

His thumb fiddled with
the corner of a letter on his desk, a message that was a paper
earthquake shaking the foundations of even this inner sanctuary. Only
the foolish grasp more than they can hold. A wise man will be heedful
of the time…a time to plant, a time to uproot…Yes, my time has
come.

Before him lay a game
of Solitaire, the white cards brilliant against the ebony of the
desk. The delicate fingers transferred the seven of clubs to the
eight of hearts. I see my hand, and I know those of my opponents.
Except…

He flipped over the
next to last unknown. The king of spades stared up, unmoving and
unmovable from his place atop the final card. And so, my friend,
you appear at the last and set my strategies tumbling uselessly about
my ears.

Swiftly, he gathered
the lost game into a neat stack, set it precisely beside the pen
holder. He picked up the card that had been set aside, the one that
was not played within the rules. He held it for a moment, angling the
glossy surface to catch the light. A card up the sleeve is an old
but worthy trick. I wonder whether you could be persuaded to play
with the others?

He set the joker
carefully on the stack and turned out the light.

To be
continued…

A/N A special
thank you to those readers who reviewed the last chapter of The
Nestling! And an advance special thank you to those of you who
will review the first chapter of this one! (Does this qualify as
counting my chickens before they hatch?)

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.